


18th and Potomac

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Supernatural, The Wire
Genre: Crossover, Gen, West Wing Title Project
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-11
Updated: 2009-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-03 03:23:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It gets easier, you know. It never goes away, but it does fade into the background eventually." (Spoilers for the series finale of The Wire)</p>
            </blockquote>





	18th and Potomac

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Nichole for handholding. Written for [**the West Wing title project**](http://musesfool.livejournal.com/1487052.html). Not knowing The Wire won't really impede your understanding of this story, but if you're watching it and haven't finished, it does contain a couple of spoilers for the ending.

Sam hands Dean the file, carefully researched and annotated, the kind of thing he used to do for school, far more formal and complete than the way they used to research and choose hunts before.

Dean takes it without a word, flips through it slowly, eyes skimming over the pages, and Sam tries not to act like a kid who's been called to the principal's office, all drumming fingers and nervous energy, though he feels like a kid again, like he had when Dad had first started taking him along on hunts, and he'd had to prove himself over and over again, always falling short.

He braces himself for rejection, can see the uncertainty on Dean's face when he looks up.

"You really think this is our kind of thing?"

"That many murdered people, left for that long? And now they're stirring it all up again?"

Dean rubs his chin and nods slowly. "Okay. We'll leave in the morning."

Sam exhales in relief, tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Cool." He keeps his voice steady, neutral, but he can't stop his mouth from curving into a half smile. "I'm gonna go pack."

Dean gives him a small, tentative smile in return, and Sam has to breathe deep to loosen the sudden tightness in his chest that feels like hope.

***

There was a time they'd have driven straight through, switching off after eight or ten hours behind the wheel, but they're both still healing up from the big save-the-world battle, and Sam knows Dean still doesn't quite trust him, not yet. Not with the car, anyway. As much as things have gotten better--and they have--Sam is still carrying that small knot of fear and worry in his belly. So they roll the windows down, blast the radio, and take it easy, stopping to eat and sleep on the way.

Sam can almost pretend it's like it used to be.

He misses the power sometimes, the feel of it humming in his blood, under his skin, the belief that he was strong enough to carry the world on his shoulders. It's worth losing it, though, to not have Dean looking at him with scared, worried eyes, to sit beside him and know he's not trying to figure out if he's going to have to kill Sam to save the world.

They hit Baltimore mid-morning on the third day, and Dean bitches about city traffic and potholes and homeless guys trying to clean the windshield with their filthy rags.

"So, what've we got?" Dean asks when he's finally grown bored with his litany of complaints, like he hasn't read the file back to front, like he needs Sam to tell him.

"A block of vacant rowhouses is being renovated--stimulus money, apparently," he says in response to Dean's raised eyebrow, "and there's been a series of escalating accidents, including one guy who lost an arm, culminating in the deaths of two construction workers last week."

"And you think this is our kind of thing because?"

"Two years ago, a whole slew of bodies was pulled out of those rowhouses, all of them shot and wrapped in plastic."

"Like Laura Palmer?"

"Yeah." Sam runs a hand through his hair. "That show gave me nightmares, you know."

"I remember. Serial killer?"

"Gang war."

"Shit. So you think we've got a bunch of pissed off phantom gangbangers hanging around?"

Sam can't help huffing a small laugh at Dean's turn of phrase. "Something like that, yeah."

Dean snorts. "Great. So, what's the plan?" He glances over at Sam, and Sam can tell he's not as relaxed as he sounds--his hands are tight on the steering wheel and his eyes are full of worry. Sam appreciates the effort, though.

"We'll start with the construction crew. Foreman knows we're coming."

That earns him a sharp look. "How's he know that?"

"Apparently, he knows someone who knows someone."

"Who knows us." Dean shakes his head. "Who'd you get this from, Sam?"

"Ellen." There's no way Dean can argue against that. Ellen is an unimpeachable source--reliable, trusted, and not all up in their recent business.

Dean's jaw clenches and his eyes narrow, but he shakes it off, manages to sound almost normal when he says, "Okay."

Sam takes a deep, relieved breath. "Okay."

***

The foreman is a middle-aged black guy with strong hands and a cynical attitude. "Knew the police weren't gonna do anything," he says, "so I told Lester, and he told me he knew someone who could help. Have to admit, I was expecting some of his cop buddies."

"No, Mr. Hawley, we're not the police, but I think we can help," Sam says while Dean wanders the area with the EMF meter. He gives Sam the nod and Sam continues, "We take care of a very specific kind of problem."

"You can stop my crew from getting hurt?"

"I think we can. We just need to know more about the houses and the murders that took place here."

Hawley shrugs. "Houses have been vacant for years. You need to talk to Lester about the rest."

Sam takes down Lester's information and nods at Dean, who meanders over and gives Hawley a tight smile. "We'll need access to the site after dark."

"You don't need me here, do you?"

"No, not at all. Better if you're not, actually," Dean says. Hawley's relief is palpable, and Sam can't blame him for that.

***

After they've exhausted Dean's limited store of small talk, which is a shame, Sam thinks, because Lester Freamon has some pretty interesting stories to tell, they get down to cases.

"So, Mr. Freamon," Dean says, grinning and accepting a glass of iced tea from Freamon's pretty wife, "what can you tell us about the dead bodies in the vacant rowhouses?"

Freamon's look reminds Sam of Bobby; this is a man who clearly does not suffer fools gladly. "What do you need that you don't already know?"

"Where the bodies are buried," Dean says before Sam can offer some more diplomatic (and less truthful) answer.

"Son, most of 'em were drug slingers and smokehounds; if they had no family to take 'em home, the city cremated 'em and dumped the ashes in potter's field."

Dean glances at Sam, exasperation clear on his face, before he turns back to Freamon. "You got any names?"

"I've got a lot of names--Little Kevin, Lex Anderson, Old Face Andre, and Bodie Broadus, just to start. Asking questions about them won't do you any good, though. Might end with you in the same condition as those bodies."

"We can take care of ourselves."

"Dean," Sam murmurs.

"I'm sure you can, Mr. Rollins." The amusement in Freamon's voice makes Sam respect him even more. "But the Stanfield organization is bigger than you, and no offence, smarter than you. Their body count is impressive, and they don't ask a lot of questions before they shoot."

Dean raises his chin, and his smile is sharp and dangerous. "Makes you wonder what the cops were up to while all this was going on."

Sam braces himself, but Freamon just laughs and sips his iced tea. "Indeed."

***

Freamon gives them a list of names and known associates, but warns them he's been off the force for over a year, and that's forever on the street.

They start with the one full name they've got, research Bodie Broadus back to his grandmother, who isn't much help. Nobody else will talk to them.

"So we've got a bunch of angry ghosts who've already been cremated, a couple of dead construction workers, a trigger-happy group of drug dealers, and no witnesses, informants, or people willing to talk to us," Dean says in between bites of his burger, "so we have no way of knowing which ghost is causing the trouble. I have a feeling this is what your friend Lester Freamon would call a stone whodunit."

Sam nods, pushing his fries around his plate. He's got no taste for ketchup these days.

"I know what we have to do, Sam."

"You do?"

"I do. You're not gonna like it."

Sam stops pretending to eat. "What is it?"

"Burn the whole thing down."

"We can't burn down a whole city block, Dean."

Dean is ready for his objection. "Make it look like squatters. Salt the perimeter of each house, set a small fire in each building, and wait for nature to take its course." He washes the words down with a sip of coffee. "I don't like it anymore than you do, Sam," which is totally a lie, but Sam doesn't call him on it, "but we've got a whole lot of nothing, going nowhere fast, and if we don't do something, more people on that site are gonna die." He grabs some fries off Sam's plate and Sam lets him. "Unless you've got a better idea?"

"We can't do anything until it's dark, Dean, so why don't we keep looking? We can ask around about," Sam looks over the list of names Freamon gave them, "Michael Lee."

"'Cause that's not a common name at all."

"Dean." Sam lets a little of his desperation bleed into his voice.

Dean nods and tosses his balled up napkin into his plate. "Okay, but if we don't find anything..."

"You can get your pyro on."

Dean's answering smile is wide and clear.

***

Everybody's got something to say about Michael Lee being one badass motherfucker--"They say he's the one finally killed Snoop Pearson"--but nothing that tells them anything they don't already know about this hunt.

They're rolling slowly down a street in West Baltimore, and Sam can feel the looks and whispers--they've been in town for just over six hours and they've already caused a stir--and it makes him uncomfortable. The clip-clop of horse's hooves shakes him out of his thoughts and he looks up to see a large flatbed cart being drawn by a horse coming the other way down the street.

"Aren't we a little far south for Amish country?" Dean says.

"I'm pretty sure he's an araber," Sam says. "I've read about them."

"Of course you have. So do they have arabers in other cities or is it just a Baltimore thing?"

"I think it's just a Baltimore thing. The term comes from--" He breaks off as a teenage kid hops down off the cart and heads towards them. Sam rolls down his window.

"You the guys looking for Michael?" the kid says.

Sam nods.

"Stop," the kid says.

"We just have a couple of questions," Dean says. "About the bodies in the vacant rowhouses."

The kid shudders. "You really don't wanna know about that. But it wasn't Michael. That was all Chris and Snoop."

"We're not cops," Dean says. "We don't wanna know who killed them."

"We just need some information about who they were," Sam adds. "It could stop other people from getting hurt. Please."

The kid shakes his head. "Don't think it'll do you any good, but his moms has her meeting tonight in the basement of Perkins Square Baptist."

"Thanks." Sam pulls a ten out of his pocket, and offers it to the kid. He hesitates for a second, then takes it and runs to catch up with the cart, which has been plodding along in the opposite direction the whole time.

***

They pull up in front of the church and Dean says, "I'll wait in the car."

Sam sighs but doesn't argue. He's not sure what he's expecting, but the small sign announcing the seven p.m. meeting of the One Step at a Time group isn't it.

He doesn't know how he's going to pick Raylene Lee out of the group; he's not sure there's a point, either, but he's come this far, and he doesn't want to burn the whole block down unless they've got no other choice.

He slips into the room and heads right for the urn of coffee on the table in the back. There are some doughnuts and some fruit laid out as well, and Sam pockets an apple and an orange for later. He won't tell Dean about the doughnuts. Some people are milling around chatting, and a few others have already settled into the folding chairs. Sam takes a sip of coffee and can't keep from making a face.

The guy filling his cup at the coffee urn laughs. "It's terrible, but it's free. And it's hot." He holds out his hand. "I'm Reginald, but everybody here calls me Bubbles."

Sam shakes his hand. "Hi, Bubbles. I'm Sam."

"First time?" Bubbles asks, gesturing with the hand holding his coffee.

"I, uh, yeah." Sam scratches the back of his neck, feeling huge and awkward and ridiculously white. "Is it that obvious?"

"It is when you've been to as many meetings as I have. And I have a good head for faces. Haven't seen you around before." Bubbles shrugs. "It's always a little weird, though, 'specially when you're new."

Sam nods. He's never been a fidgeter--that was always Dean--but he's trying to figure out how to ask about Raylene Lee, and he's pretty sure that's against the rules.

"You okay?" Bubbles asks.

"I'm fine." Sam takes another sip of coffee and grimaces.

"It gets easier, you know. It never goes away, but it does fade into the background eventually. It still aches in your bones, but you learn that what you have now is worth more than a few hits on the pipe."

Sam nods, startled and trying not to show it. They'd burned it out of him in the end, the power lost, revoked, repudiated (depending on who tells the story), but he still feels it sometimes, like a phantom limb aching to be stretched and used. Sometimes it wakes him in the middle of the night, an absence in the slow pulse of blood in his veins, and he wants it so much he can taste it on the back of his tongue, thick and coppery and warm from Ruby's body.

He swallows hard, forcing down the memory, and remembers there's a guy standing in front of him waiting for a response. "Thanks," he says, voice a little rusty.

Bubbles smiles and ducks his head, no judgment in his eyes. "It ain't nothing."

"You know it is."

Bubbles nods. "Yeah."

Sam looks over the group of faces and realizes Dean is right--finding Raylene Lee isn't going to change what they need to do.

"Thanks," he says again, looking Bubbles right in the eye, wanting him to know he's sincere. Sam puts down his cup of terrible coffee and walks out, feeling the weight of Bubbles' sad but understanding gaze.

These people can't help him with this.

***

Sam hands Dean the orange wordlessly and rubs the apple on his shirt before taking a bite. It crunches satisfyingly, sweet-tart juice dribbling down his chin, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Dean holds the orange like he's weighing it, looks at Sam like he's weighing him. "No joy?"

Sam shakes his head, takes another bite of the apple, chews and swallows before he answers, "No joy."

Dean squeezes the orange reflexively and gives Sam a small half-grin. "Then we need to pick up some extra accelerant."

***

"If it makes you feel any better, there was already a small fire, right before the maiming and the killing started, so it's just gonna look like one more freak accident," Dean says as he pours the last of the lighter fluid over the makeshift fire pit they've made in the middle of what used to be the living room floor. They've been lucky; only three of the angry spirits have shown up to protest their eviction--or maybe it's the same spirit three different times; Sam's not sure--and Sam's taken care of them with the shotgun. When Sam doesn't answer, Dean says, "You know this is the best way, hell, probably the only way to fix this, Sam."

"I know." Sam sighs. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

Dean nods, slings his duffel bag over his shoulder, and hands the box of matches to Sam. Sam looks at him, surprised, and he says, "Go on, Sammy. Light it up."

Sam feels that last knot of anxiety uncoil as he strikes the first match, and he smiles.

end

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> 18th &amp; Potomac is technically an intersection in Washington, DC, not Baltimore, but there is a Potomac Avenue there, and what the hell else was I going to do with this title? Also, I am pretty sure araber only refers to guys who sell fruit from horse-drawn carts, but Sam might not know that, and also, I could be wrong.


End file.
